


Like Stadium Lights

by Dawnfeathers



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29936394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnfeathers/pseuds/Dawnfeathers
Summary: Season 13, Day 13. Season 13, Day 14. Away series at the Seattle Garages. Sutton Picklestein is incinerated. Curry Aliciakeyes lets through 2 runs in the first inning.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	Like Stadium Lights

Curry hadn't been looking. It had been a long game, the dead ring that served as a reminder of sins supposedly forgiven hanging low in the sky, and Curry had found themself begrudgingly nestled into Mora's scarf, the only warm clothing ze had acquiesced to wearing in the last several months. They picked up the habit of scratching into hir stubble with their horns. They trusted Inky to close out the game with the Garages, the sound of ball on bat and glove almost seemed to form a rhythm, even over the distant roar of Seattle traffic. 

They’d almost nodded off when the scream cut through warmth and comfort like a dagger of ice. The flash of blistering red heat followed a half second later, as they scrambled to bear witness. James was a half-step behind her, ears twitching to catch any hint. Curry’s senses were no slouch, but ze caught them by the leg.  
“Curry, you don’t want to see this one.”  
Curry turned, kicking and lashing their barbed tail, wings beating angrily enough at the air that their snap might drown out the announcer. They already knew it was one of theirs. The silence of the crowd was enough to know that. Seattle knew how to cry havoc at the umpires who took their players but had never quite known how to herald a death on the away team. “Off me, Mora! You don’t get to make that choice for me, you hear me!”  
Mora relented, under the gentle persuasion of a handful of thin scratches to hir wrist. 

Curry rounded the corner, counting out fielders, eyes flickering under their dark glasses. 

`A ROGUE UMPIRE HAS INCINERATED YELLOWSTONE MAGIC PLAYER SUTTON PICKLESTEIN. REPLACED BY KURT CRUELLER.’

-

A week. It was always a week, but it had felt longer before. There had been time to breathe, once, they could’ve sworn it. They’d had a quiet night out with the garages over the weekend, but it was too soon to cut loose.

Still in Seattle, just the second game in the series. Curry hovered over the mound, hands tight. The eclipse was gone for now, raucous cawing matching the drone of the crowd. Still, near second base, they hadn’t quite fixed the grass yet. 

Play ball.  
The weather had warmed up, not that it seemed to bother Notarobot. One strike to get their eye in, a clean single. Okay.  
The umpire blinked as Quack Enjoyable took position over the mound. Curry swore they’d give it something to blink at. Two blistering fastballs, one fouled, then a hit to Bevan in the outfield. The shuffle of Kurt on second almost made them miss the catch as it returned. Underhand. The arc almost felt wrong.  
Goodwin. Out of their peripheral, Chorby waved frenetically, replied in kind by one of Morin’s shadow arms. Fastball, changeup- damn that went far. Goodwin’s jog seemed well-deserved, but Curry couldn’t help but feel like she was going easy on them. Another shuffle from Kurt as Malik stepped up, tapping his bat on the plate and giving a nod.  
A half-second too late, Curry followed his look, to first base, to Goodwin starting to move. A tell like that was an easy out – the ball moved with practiced ease as Curry twisted in the air, pitching at speed to where they knew Sutton’s glove would be –  
`GOODWIN MORIN STEALS SECOND!’

“Tighten up, Curry.” They grumbled, catching Frank’s lazy overhand and twisting the ball in their glove. The familiar hard knot crawled up the back of their throat, lips curling into a snarl.  
“Flinch, damn you.” High and close fastball, just barely in the zone; a hint of a spark off the stitches, hopefully enough to put some fear in those disgusting white eyes.  
`SINGLE! NOTAROBOT AND GOODWIN MORIN SCORE!’ 

Kurt had caught a pitch intended for them, seen they weren’t going to turn from where they were hovering. The light behind the dark glasses was still blinding, the wet grass still smelled of ash. They swallowed hard, taking a breath and turning so Kurt would pass to them.  
“Thanks, Kurt.”


End file.
